


Impasse

by samidha



Series: Of Dreams and Demons [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Outtakes, Stand Alone, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 11:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: Written for someone who wanted a dramatization of events we don't see between Sam and Dean when it comes to Stanford. Stands alone.





	Impasse

Sam hasn’t been able to sleep in days. He’s dozed off a few times, but not for long enough to get any rest. He cat naps between English and American History, but Brady is too damn loud when he slams his way back into their dorm room. 

Brady is not having a good semester. Sam is pretty sure he must be thinking of transferring, and Sam is struggling to support him through it. Mostly, the last few weeks, Sam just has wished he would get it over with so Sam could think about maybe sleeping again sometime this year.

It’s two in the afternoon and Brady comes in reeking of booze, a bottle of whiskey held tight in his grip and Sam is not--is not--thinking about who he most resembles now, if Sam just looks at him sideways. 

Sam just wants sleep. Sweet, dreamless sleep.

Mostly, his head hurts, and his eyes swim as he tries to read _Moby Dick_ for class and Sam doesn’t feel like saving Brady’s drunk ass right now, or maybe not ever again. Everything looks a little wavy and far away, and his chest aches for another time, another place, and miles to go before he settles anywhere. 

Sam needs to sleep for a week, if only so he can keep his vision clear, stop thinking that everything weird he sees is proof of a haunting or a poltergeist. 

He doesn’t have time for Brady. He doesn’t have time for Becca or Zach. He definitely doesn’t have time for the girl in Psych 101 who Brady introduced as Jessica Moore after he dragged Sam to that Halloween party last month.

He tries not to think about the fact that he went back on his “no celebrating Halloween” rule. He tries not to think about the ritual of Samhain, of new years and new beginnings.

Because what he needs to be thinking about is sleep, and grades high enough to keep his scholarship. And that’s it.

Sam wakes out of his cat nap and rolls over with a groan while Brady slams around the room like Sam isn’t even here.

Sam sits up in bed and tells himself it’s okay. At least he isn’t dreaming anymore.

*~*~*

Sam dreams of things on fire. Fire so hot it finds its way into every dream Sam has. Blistering the furniture in his dorm room. Blowing out the windows of houses. Licking up the walls of any safe place Sam ever finds, until Sam can’t stand sleep anymore and he caffeinates his way through night after night, until he has redefined the all-nighter as the all-weeker-and-who’s-asking?

Even when he’s awake he swears he can see yellow flickering at the edges of his vision and he can’t stop thinking of how hot it is here, how if he isn’t careful the next thing he knows he’ll be seeing spontaneous combustion all around his classroom.

Sam doesn’t have time to be haunted. He has a life he’s building here, one careful lie, one well-placed omission at a time. It’s easier than he thought it would be. He’s always left the gambling and the hustling to his dad and Dean, unless he was strictly needed, bullied into it by his father most times, but the lying has come easy for a long time now. Lying is self-preservation. It’s second nature.

Most people here assume he’s just like them until they hear about the money, anyway.

The scholarship money makes things awkward enough that it’s easy to pile half-truths and omissions on top of it. Things were tough at home, he’s gotten used to telling people when he really has to, and no one’s wanted to hear the why of that in a long time. Everyone has their own demons they’re fighting, even little rich demons, and Sam keeps himself among a crowd who are here for real, here to soak up all they can can, using all they learn as a shield from whatever they’re hiding from.

He thinks of motel rooms and ice machines, close quarters and weeks alone and he thinks he’s even telling the truth.

*~*~*

He nods off over his biology textbook--his easiest class, because he’s good at it; splitting flesh, cataloguing parts, proving the complexity of a body’s inner workings, and all of that just feels right. 

He sits up with a sigh, dabbing with his sleeve at the page he has open where it’s slightly damp when he hears it.

 _Snick_.

He’s on alert in two seconds flat, rocketing up from his desk, and he isn’t afraid, because there is only one person who would try to pop the lock on his door.

Only one.

Sam stands waiting for him in the glow of his desk lamp, reaches out a hand to open the door before Dean can finish the job with his lockpicks. He isn’t trying to steal his brother’s thunder, he’s just impatient, doesn’t want to explain the broken lock to his RA. 

Doesn’t want a conversation that comes within a league of talking about his brother. Doesn’t want any evidence of the encounter he is about to have.

The door opens while Dean is still crouched down and immediately Sam’s entire attention is on him, on his brother really being here after so long, after words cutting the air between him and Dad, one packed army duffel and a final slam of the door back in Kentucky. Just seeing Dean there, he stops breathing for a second, and he goes perfectly still, feels his heart slamming in his chest and he has to wait for Dean to do something, say something.

Dean grins and it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are bright and manic and he stands, crossing into the room. 

“Hey, Sammy,” he says, like this is any normal day and that’s when Sam bristles, feels his skin prickling and sweat on his forehead.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is tight in his throat, like maybe he’ll choke on the words, like even talking to Dean is too much. 

He isn’t ready. Isn’t ready to deal with the man who has been completely unavailable for two years that stretched on and on, every day proof that Dean had sided with Dad on everything, after all the encouragement, all the pride he couldn’t hide from Sam, the quiet support that had made Sam think for sure, for sure, Dean had his back.

Two years of radio silence, and now this. _Hey, Sammy_ , like Sam should care, like Sam can pick up where they left off, like nothing’s happened.

“Is that any way to greet your brother? What do you think--”

“Two years, Dean. Shut the fuck up. What are you doing here?”

“Look, Sammy--”

“What do you _want_ from me, Dean?” Sam’s voice is flat and hard. “Spit it out. Now.”

“I-- Sammy--”

“Call me that again,” Sam hisses. 

“Look. I think you should come with me,” Dean finally says.

Sam barks out a laugh, bitter on his tongue. “Wow.” He stares right into Dean, through him, and he knows Dean is serious, the way his eyes are pleading, the way he stands there, like he already knows what Sam’s answer is, but he has to try anyway. “So tell me, Dean, what made you think-- You know, I don’t even want to know why.”

“Sam,” Dean says, with some effort, the word sounding ripped out of him. He steps into Sam’s space and Sam slips back, but eventually there isn’t any room to move away and Dean grabs at Sam’s shirt with both fists. 

Sam can smell Dean now, smoke and leather and desperation, and he leans away, puts as much space between them as he can. “You have some nerve. Some fucking nerve, coming here. You never called. You never--”

“Phones work both ways, asshole,” Dean growls.

“You never answered.” 

Dean reels back, because that’s true, and it hangs there in the air between them like poison

“But, sure, Dean, let me drop everything. Let me drop _my life_ and come with you. We’ll have a road trip. See the giant ball of twine, right? Good old family fun. Oh, wait. Maybe not. You expect me to just join up with you guys? He disowned me, Dean, and you haven’t even been--”

“It’s just me now, has been for about six months. You won’t even see Dad. He’s deep in it. Has been. Look, Sammy, you’re good backup and I--”

“Get out.” He rips his shirt out of Dean’s grip. 

“Sam, I’ve been--”

“ _Out._ ” Sam pushes at him, and Dean stumbles over himself, anger finally flashing in his eyes, but Sam can’t even stand to look at him, and he doesn’t care.

Doesn’t care.

It’s been too long. Too many days of radio silence, stretching into weeks, months, _years_. Sam advances on him, and Dean backpedals, anger warring with fear all over his face but Sam just keeps moving, keeping only the corner of his eye on Dean, so he doesn’t have to see, doesn’t have to think about his brother’s gall.

In another time, in another place, he knows Dean’s fists would be flying, but Dean knows what he did, and now he knows what Sam thinks of that. 

He better fucking know.

Sam backs him out into the hallway, grabs for the doorknob and is about to slam the door when Dean flattens his palms against his chest, grabbing for him a second time and Sam has to shake him off again, livid. 

That’s when he says it.

“Sam, I’ve been dreaming about fire.”

Sam sees red, and the door comes crashing closed. 

He wishes he felt better. Wishes that had solved anything.

It doesn’t, but at least he doesn’t have to care.


End file.
